Tiny Angel
by ahiddenmask
Summary: Erik faces a whole new world when a mysterious illness plagues Christine, and he contemplates the consequences that may follow.
**I guess in a way this is the continuation of my last story, _The Wedding Night,_ as it takes place in a similar universe, though I wouldn't necessarily call it a sequel. In any case, you don't need to read TWN to understand this one, even if I used a few details. This is again, just fluff, an idea that was bouncing in my head for some time, and eventually I managed to iron it out. I hope you enjoy. **

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Christine's head spun as she leaned heavily against the counter and steadied herself with her hand. Rolls of nausea churned her stomach as she pressed her lips tightly together, willing the horrible feeling in her throat to stop. She closed her eyes, cursing silently. _Not again,_ she thought. _Will I ever be over this bug?_

For days, Christine had suffered at the hands of this mysterious illness, which robbed her of her appetite and forced out what little nourishment she had in her stomach. Hidden from her husband, she'd retched in the garden out back or into her chamber pot, knowing full well that if he discovered her in such a state, he'd go into such a fuss that would threaten to bring the whole house down, and likely call upon several doctors who would storm into the house and poke and prod at her, only to discover that was simply a stomach bug and his overreacting was futile.

At least, that's what she'd assumed, until the sickness had yet to wane for nearly a week. The little food she'd managed to choke down at mealtimes under her husband's watchful eye would inevitably return the next morning, and Christine was simply exhausted. _I just want it to stop,_ she pled silently. _Please, please, let it stop._

Her stomach took a particularly nasty lurch, and right as she was sure it was the end, she found herself suddenly being embraced from behind, strong arms winding around her rolling middle, much to her horror.

"Good morning, my sweet," her husband cooed into her ear. "How are you this fine morning?" His grasp only sped up the process which was occurring in her core, and Christine gasped.

"Erik!" She pulled with some difficulty from his grasp and vomited into the sink, choking as she shut her eyes. _Damn._ She was caught.

"Christine?" Erik's voice was colored with horror as he grabbed for her hair, pulling it out of her face. "Dear god, what's wrong?"

Christine began to straighten, to assure him that she was quite alright, but her stomach was not finished with her, and she immediately retched again, her insides yanking her forward into a hunch over the counter as she emptied her stomach. Finally, it was over, and she tilted her head back and sighed.

Immediately, Erik was running water and grabbing a rag to wet her forehead with. Wiping her face, he led her to the kitchen table and sat her down, kneeling before her and pressing the damp rag to her forehead. "Christine, Christine," he said, almost as if comforting her. "What's wrong, my love? Did you eat something that didn't agree with you? Shall I make you something else to eat?"

Christine turned green at the thought of more food. She slowly shook her head and instantly regretted it as the world spun again. "No," she whispered, closing her eyes. "No, my dear, I'm quite alright. Just a small sickness, it would seem. I'm sure it's nearly passed."

"Nearly?" he echoed in disbelief. "Do you mean that you've been sick for some time?" His eyes searched her face, and she could only meet them for a second, before looking down at her lap.

"Christine," he said sternly. "Christine, tell me. How long has this been going on?"

She sniffed, miserable. "A week," she admitted. "I'm sorry, my love. I thought that if you knew, you would only worry. I assumed that it would pass in a matter of days." She sighed, and stroked his cheek, which had been marred since birth, and managed a weak smile. "I'll be alright," she repeated. "I'm sure it will pass soon. Perhaps I just need some rest."

"This requires more than rest, Christine," Erik scolded. "If this has been going on for nearly a week, it's clear there is something greater amiss. I noticed you weren't eating as much as you normally do." Here he shook his head, pressing his lips together into a line. "I should have said something," he chastised himself. "I knew something had to be wrong but I figured you would say something if it was…" He sighed, and stood abruptly. "No matter. I'll call for the best doctor in Paris and we will have this sorted out straight away." He spun on his heel and began to walk towards his desk.

"No!" Christine cried, and struggled to her feet, catching the hem of his cloak with her fingers. "No, my love, I must protest. I don't want a doctor. Besides, love, what are they to say when they see us, living out here so isolated, a young woman and her husband who dare not show his face?"

Erik heaved a breath and turned to face her. "You're right," he said. "That would arouse suspicion. But, Christine, you are ill, and I only want you to get better. You're suffering, my angel." He tenderly stroked her face with his hand, and she leaned into the contact.

Christine smiled a small smile. "If it would make you feel better, _ange_ , I could go into town myself. The walk may do me some good, fresh air and sunlight. There's a doctor not far from the opera house that the ballerina's would go to, if they were sick in the midst of a show. He know's me quite well, and—"

"Absolutely not," Erik cut her off. "I won't have you collapsing on the road in the middle of the countryside."

"It's only a few miles," she protested. "Perhaps then I could take Cesar, if you shan't let me walk. The poor beast has been cooped up in his stable since the rains started on Monday, and I daresay he's as needy of the sun as I am."

"And whose to say he won't take off?" Erik countered. "Or make you feel worse?"

"Erik, don't be foolish!" Christine exclaimed. "You yourself told me I was an excellent horsewoman. Papa and I used to ride all the time when I was young. Besides, Cesar is an intelligent animal. He'll be kind, I know it."

Erik and Christine stood in silence, staring each other in the eyes, willing the other to back down. Erik had never met someone who could gaze at him so unflinchingly, and, worse, fight him on his opinions. And yet, there was no one like Christine. Her tenacity and her stubbornness were some of the things he loved and admired most about her, thought it was a source of great headaches for him in the meantime. With another sigh, his shoulders drooped as he admitted defeat and looked away, clenching his jaw.

"Very well," he said, looking out the window and then back at his wife. "But take the main roads. Do not stray, and, for the love of God above, please come back safely. Send a message if you are to be delayed."

She offered another weak smile and kissed his cheek. "Of course, love," she said, and went to fetch her cloak. He followed her and helped her drape it across her shoulders, while also fetching her hat from the hook where it hang besides the door.

"And don't let Cesar graze," he continued, nagging as she pulled on her boots. "He'll mow down the entire countryside if we let him. And don't ride too fast, you'll risk being sick again." He tied her hat under her chin as she gazed at him, half in exasperation, half in amusement, her eyes twinkling. "And, whatever the news, you must tell me," he finished, opening the door and handing her a few coins, which he had fished from his pocket. "Do try to eat something," he called from the door as she stepped out onto the path and towards the stables. She glanced back over her shoulder and laughed.

"My dear, sometimes you mistake me for quite the invalid!" With a shake of her head, she disappeared into the stable and, within a few minutes, trotted out on the gleaming white stallion Erik doted upon. With a wave, the pair began their journey down the road, while Erik watched for the doorway. He leaned heavily against the doorframe and sighed.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, his face twisting with worry.

She often called him overprotective, but in truth, the former Phantom of the Opera worried constantly about his younger bride. Being the first and foremost source of warmth and comfort in his life, having been miserable until her grand entrance several years ago, he cherished her every breath and smile. Two years of marriage had done little to quench that, and he constantly worried that their little bit of happiness, which had been so perfect and carefree, would come to end.

And now, he feared it had, as a pit of worry knotted his gut. What illness could keep her so sickly for so long? She hadn't eaten much in days, and now he was certain she hadn't been drinking enough water. If she'd been as sick as she had been that morning for nearly a week, surely that was a sign something was amiss, and gravely so.

Erik returned to the living room of the country house he and his wife shared, and sat in his favorite chair, brooding, brow knotted with worry as he allowed his worse fears to whisper their way into his head.

Oh, misery! What if she were ill beyond repair? What if he was on the brink of losing her? Thoughts of Christine, frail, pale, and dying, while he stood by, powerless, began to cloud his mind. His worst fear was that she might die before him. Though they were both healthy and fit, Christine staying in shape due to her time on stage and singing voice and Erik naturally inclined to do so, whilst also keeping their older house up to par for living in, were not, to say the least, invincible. Colds and the occasional flu had kept them both abed from time to time, and each time Christine had coughed or shivered, Erik's heart had turned cold with fear. Yet this was nothing compared to the fear he felt now. He couldn't lose her. He simply could not bear it, not after all they had been through together.

He still often couldn't believe his luck, having such a beautiful, intelligent, and extraordinary woman to call his wife. Whenever he woke up to her, snuggled against him with her auburn curls splayed out onto their pillows, it was as if no other living creatures existed on the planet besides him and her.

One of the very first mornings, after a particularly quiet night, he had woken up with a raging headache and a sore throat…not good in his line of work. With a groan, he rolled over and felt for Christine's warmth beside him, only to meet cool, empty sheets. He blinked and lifted his head, looking for his wife, who was not in bed beside him. In his morning disorientation, he'd begun to panic that he'd hallucinated their entire courtship, but just as his panic was rising and he was about to struggle out of bed, the door opened quietly and Christine peeked her head in, bringing with her breakfast and a mug of hot tea, explaining that she'd woken up to him coughing and shivering and, knowing he wouldn't be well come morning, decided to bring him breakfast in bed to help him rest. Erik, for all that he tried, was overcome with emotion and simply pulled Christine close and held her, murmuring that he already felt better.

On another occasion, she'd gone ghastly pale abruptly while singing with him at the piano. He'd stood up and steadied her, only to find that she was burning with fever that had come on suddenly. Despite her feeble protests, he'd sent her straight to bed and brought her a cup of tea and honey, and sang her to sleep whilst rubbing her back. She'd recovered in days.

But this, this was different. Something about Christine had seemed off, for quite some time, and he'd barely paused to give it thought. He was so busy composing a new piece, with his mind dancing with song, that he'd locked himself away, lost in his own thoughts. And yet, maybe he'd avoided Christine, hoped he was imaging things, that Christine wasn't sick, maybe that life was continuing as normal.

 _This is your fault,_ he scolded himself. _If you hadn't so consumed with that damn aria, you'd've noticed your own wife wilting before you! Damn fool that you are._ He continued with his self-abusive thoughts as the afternoon wore on, unable to move from his chair in the living room, staring off at a particular spot in the wall that hadn't seem to want to go away, no matter how much paint or scrubbing had been used against it. There was no way he could think of focusing on his music, or anything, for that matter, not with Christine as sick as she was.

He thought back to the previous weeks, trying to narrow down when the illness could have started. Frankly, he wasn't sure. They'd spent their anniversary abroad in Italy, enjoying some of the finer architecture and wine, while also indulging in some Italian opera and the purchasing of some art pieces for their house—Christine was always searching for decor for the home, seeing as it was his first, and for her, the first home she'd had since her Papa had passed on. Determined to make it perfect, she couldn't resist the occasional painting or other trinket to adorn the hallway, or the living room, or the kitchen. Her fussing was some of the things he loved most about her, and he let her decorate the house to her liking—anything she picked, he knew, would be perfect.

No, no, their anniversary had been lovely. More than lovely in fact. Thoughts of their several-night-long passionate episodes suddenly careened into Erik's mind, and he nearly got swept up with the memories of Christine's impossibly soft skin and her voice sighing his name, and immediately chastised himself again. _Your wife could be dying, yet you fantasize about her like a plaything,_ his demons whispered viciously. Erik pressed his hands to the side of his head and bowed over, so close that his nose nearly touched his knees. Groaning, he shook his head, pressing his eyes tight together. Their anniversary had been perfect, and the fear gnawed at him; what if that was the last anniversary they were to spend?

The morning passed with agonizing slowness, yet Erik did not move him his chair. The clock on the mantle ticked by with maddening uniformity, and the light changed in the room from the early whispers of morning, to the brightness of noon, to shadows beginning to form behind the furniture. Still, Erik sat, and still, Christine did not return.

His panic was a monsoon by then. His eyes wide, and his heart racing, he sat with his hands pressed tightly together, staring at that same spot in the wall, waiting, waiting, waiting…

Suddenly, he heard the door open with a click. A gentle breeze wafted through the house and carried with it her soft, sweet scent.

"Erik?" her musical voice called out, though it was shaking and timid. Erik's gut knotted, but before he could answer, Christine drifted into the living room and immediately spied her husband, sitting stiffly in his chair. She did not say anything.

Erik hastened to his feet, wincing slightly as the stiffness left his body, and still Christine stayed silent, her blue eyes watching his face with earnest.

"Well?" he asked finally. She looked down at her gloved hands, and sighed, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

Erik felt the world give way beneath him. He stumbled forward, taking her hands in his and still, she did not meet his eyes. Erik closed his, feeling his soul shatter into a million pieces. So, that was it then. She was gravely ill, possibly dying, and he was going to be left alone, without her, in this house that suddenly seemed too big, almost suffocatingly large, as if it would consume him if he stood there a minute longer.

"I guess that's it then," Erik whispered softly. He hung his head, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. "I knew…somehow I knew this would not last." He said this last part to himself, or so he thought, but Christine's head snapped up, looking at him with huge, rounded eyes, her expression aghast.

"Erik, I—"

"And there's nothing to be done?" Erik choked out.

"To be done?" Christine's tone was horrified. "What could you mean? What else is there to do?"

"I don't know, Christine, something!" he shouted suddenly, feeling desperation making his thoughts and actions erratic. "Something, anything! A second opinion, something, a cure, or something, something to stop this…"

"Stop it? Is that what you want, to stop this?" Christine was shrieking now, too. Tears were falling down her beautiful face, her eyes filled with pain.

"Of course it is!" Erik was shocked. How could she doubt his love now, after the glorious two years they'd spent together? "I won't lose you, Christine, I won't! I can't, I can't…" here he stalked to the fireplace and braced himself against the mantle with two strong hands, as sobs bubbled in his chest. "I can't," he whispered.

Christine crossed the room to him, her skirts swishing gently. She placed a hand on Erik's back. "You won't," she whispered. "Erik, you must see that, you won't lose me."

"You're right," he said, spinning around to face her, eyes wide with sudden insanity. "I will follow wherever you go, Christine, don't think for a minute my life has any meaning without you in it." Wringing his hands, he began to babble and pace the floor. "Yes, yes, I can see it now. We'll go someplace warm, somewhere where you can see the sun, and you will live out your days in the sun and as soon as you are gone, know I will be right behind you. But I will not go without a fight, I must call Nadir, perhaps he can find a doctor, a Persian one, who can help us…"

She watched her husband's frantic steps, her mouth hanging open. "Erik, for God's sake, what are you going on about?" Christine finally burst out. "Where could I possibly be going? What are you talking about?"

"Your death Christine!" Erik roared, halting his pacing to face her. "Do you really think I would have any excuse to live once you are dead? No! I will fight this, I must fight this, whatever illness that is consuming you, I will make sure that it has met it's maker before I let you meet yours."

"My…" Christine trailed off, brow furrowing in confusion. "My dear, do you think I am dying?"

"You must be," Erik whispered, his face falling. "Why else were you gone for so long? Why else could you come in here, so unwilling to face me?" He crossed to her and took her hands in his. "Oh Christine, it isn't your fault, _ange_ , I promise," he began to cry. "But I mustn't lose you, I cant, I just can't, Christine, oh, Christine," here he felt to his knees and, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressed his face into her torso as hot tears dripped down his face.

Christine stood still, shocked. Slowly, with shaking hands, she came up to stroke his thin hair and cradle his face. He shuddered into her dress, emotion overtaking him. Finally, she spoke.

"You're wrong."

He froze, and looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

Christine shook her head, a rueful expression on her face. "You're wrong, Erik," she repeated. "I'm…I'm not dying."

"You're not?" Erik blubbered, climbing to his feet. "You're going to be okay?" He didn't dare let himself hope.

"Well, my love, that depends," Christine said cautiously, stepping away from her husband, her best friend, and, looking out the window, wrapped her arms around herself. Erik watched her, confused.

"Depends on what, my angel?"

"On you," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, and Erik saw that she was trembling.

"On me?" he repeated. "What…what have I got to do with anything?"

"Everything," she whispered, closing her eyes as tears welled back and spilled out onto her cheeks. "Because I don't know what you're going to say…what you're going to say to me after you've found out."

"Found out what, Christine?" his voice was harder now. "Tell me. Whatever it is, we can fix it."

"No," she sniffed, wiping her face with her hand, and turning only slightly to glance at him over her shoulder. "No, my darling, I don't believe we can."

Horror had returned to Erik's stomach. "Christine?" was all he managed out.

She took a deep breath, and turned to face him completely.

"Erik, I'm…I'm pregnant."

One thing that Erik had always prided himself in was his extraordinary reaction time. It had saved his life on numerous occasions, helped him with quick getaway, and made for some musical transitions that even astonished him sometimes. But in this case, he might as well have been struck dead. His mind raced as he tried to first comprehend what Christine had told him, and then come up with some sort of response. But his brilliant mind failed him.

Silence rang out in the living room as Christine faced her angel of music, her lip trembling, more tears threatening to fall as she wound her arms protectively around her waist, her womb that now carried a child, _his child,_ a child that he never thought could exist and often prayed never would, for fear of passing on his deformity, this _infection_ that had ruined his life so completely. The thought of passing it on to a child, a baby, was abysmal. Erik was not a kind man, he had murdered and tortured, burned and destroyed, yet the thought of passing on his loathsome face to an innocent child made him sick.

And here was his wife, his love of his life, telling him that she was pregnant, with his child.

Panic once again.

He wanted to run. He wanted to run and hide in the depths of the opera house, in the darkness where no one could see him. He couldn't do that, so he settled for his music room.

Turning on his heel, he made for the stairs, yet stopped himself in the doorframe

Wait a second. Christine was pregnant. With his child. They were going to have a baby. They were going to have a _baby._

Images began to appear in Erik's mind. Christine, her stomach round, her eyes bright and cheeks rosy, smiling at him as she cradled her growing bulge. A baby, cooing and gazing up at him with the same bright, blue-eyed gaze that her mother did. Laughter in the house as a toddler barreled through the house, naked, avoiding getting dressed for the day while Erik chased him, laughing as well. Christine tucking their child into bed at night, kissing their forehead and pulling the sheets up closer around them. Their child, growing, learning to play music, or sing, or whatever their heart desired while Erik and Christine looked on. A child who would be so, so loved, so treasured, in ways that Erik never was. He would make sure of this. Perhaps it would shudder at his face, perhaps it would not want anything to do with him, but Erik knew, he was going to love this child, more than life itself, maybe almost more than he loved Christine.

 _They were having a baby._

Unexpected joy filled Erik. He spun around and looked at her, eyes intense, staring at her.

"A…a baby?" he managed to get out.

Christine nodded, sniffling and looking down at the floor.

"You…you're pregnant?" he repeated, taking another hesitant step towards her. Christine let out a tiny sob in response and looked up at him, eyes filled with tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I…I tried to be careful, whenever we made love, I tried…" she closed her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Erik."

Erik crossed the room in two strides and swung Christine up into his arms, spinning her around. Laughter came suddenly from his chest, and he grabbed Christine close, pressing a kiss to her lips, once, twice, and finally once more, leaving this one to be deeper, trying to convey his feelings. "Sorry?" he asked when he put her down, tears starting to fall down his face, as well. "My dear, sweet angel, you're _sorry?"_ He was grinning now, his hands clasping her shoulders, barely able to contain his excitement. He hugged her again and abruptly slid to his knees, taking her hand and pressing kisses to her knuckles, tears falling harder now. Christine stood, shell shocked.

"Oh, Christine," Erik sighed, looking up at her with glassy, tear filled eyes. "Christine, my darling, you have given me so much joy. You gave me hope when I had none, music when I thought I had learned it all, you loved me, an unlovable man, and you agreed to become my wife, when I was so underserving of it all, and now…now you're creating life…you're giving me the most divine gift a man could ever ask for, and you feel as though you need to _apologize?_ " He took her in his arms again. "Oh, Christine, if anyone need apologize, it's me, your idiot husband who for any conceivable amount of time let you believe that I wouldn't be overjoyed with this news. Scared, darling, yes, terrified, but angry? Sad? No, my sweet, no."

Christine was smiling now through her tears. "Really?" she asked. "You're…you're happy?"

"Happy doesn't even begin to describe that I feel," he whispered. With that, he knelt and kissed her stomach. "I love you," he whispered into the fabric of her dress. "I love you, and I love your mother, too, and even if you do not love me back, tiny angel, know you will always be loved, for your entire life."

"He'll love you," Christine whispered. "Of course he will."

Erik closed his eyes, resting against Christine's chest and hearing her heart beat. Then, with a smile, he jumped to his feet and picked Christine up, bridal style.

"Erik, wha—"

"You have made me the happiest man alive not once, but twice, Christine," Erik said. "And now, I do believe it is time to celebrate." With a mischievous smirk, he whisked her away to their bedroom, Christine's laughter echoing throughout the house as they ascended the staircase.

Fatherhood wouldn't be an easy task, Erik was sure, but perhaps, together, they could do a decent job of it. His fears of being a father gradually began to melt away, as he and Christine sunk once again into their married bliss.

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 **Thank you for reading. If I feel compelled, I may add to this story, but as of right now, I am not. Hope you liked it!**


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